


Refuge

by notjustmom



Series: Words, Words, Words [310]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2019-02-10 18:55:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12918120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom
Summary: refuge: noun: re-(ˌ)fyüj: a place of shelter, protection, or safety.The re- in refuge means basically "back" or "backward" rather than "again;" thus, a refugee is someone who is "fleeing backward". Refuge tends to appear with certain other words: you generally "seek refuge", "take refuge", or "find refuge". Religion may be a refuge from the woes of your life; a beautiful park may be a refuge from the noise of the city; and your bedroom may be a refuge from the madness of your family.





	Refuge

**Author's Note:**

> and more of the Harbinger verse...

"Tell me, John." Sherlock whispered again when John shook his head.

"I - no one - I had no one to tell - after. No one understood why I went back instead of going into private practice, they thought I had lost my mind. I wanted - I wanted to get lost over there - I didn't want - why?"

"Why, what?" Sherlock mumbled into John's hair.

John finally sat up and glanced down at Sherlock. "Why do you want to know?"

Sherlock shrugged and brushed the fringe from John's eyes. "You already know more about me than anyone else ever has, and you are still here, you didn't - you haven't run yet. I just wanted to return the favour. All right..." Sherlock closed his eyes and began, "... you had a tattoo made to memorialise him, you still think of him every day, two years on, you feel guilty that you made it home and he didn't. You thought he was a better person, a stronger person - that he deserved to return to his life, his family, but he didn't and you -"

John blinked at him for a moment, then gingerly placed both hands into Sherlock's hair and kissed his rough, chapped lips just to stop the onslaught of words that came from the man who had overnight become his refuge. He backed away, but left his hands in Sherlock's hair, and watched curiously- as Sherlock raised his hand and ran a finger over his lips, as if trying to outthink what had just happened. John muttered in a small voice, "I'm sorry - I - just - how did you know?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "People, most people, apparently feel things strongly when they become attached, or so I understand." He looked at John again, then turned away, "You, you and -"

"Matthew. Matt." John's voice dropped even lower.

"You and Matt had known each other since - uni?" John nodded. "He was a lifer - you went on to med school, but you saw him on leave. You always had a girlfriend..." Sherlock glanced at him again and shook his head. "No - you always dated women, so no one could tell - you'd only go on one or two dates, would never let them get serious about you - but when he was home - it was just him, but you couldn't tell anyone. Because you had, no, have a sibling who had to leave home - Harry - sorry, saw your phone - fell out of your pocket last night - sister, considering the colour of phone - gift from her wife - ex-wife, because if they were still together, she never would have given it to you. Sentiment."

John's face paled, and he stared at the man in front of him. "Remarkable. You are - amazing."

Sherlock looked down at his hands and managed a slight grin. "You are the first not to punch me. By now - I'm usually hitting the pub floor." He snorted and met John's eyes again. "When you finished med school, you signed up to be with him, you managed it, somehow - and you - it was supposed to be you - he got out of the humvee first, but it was supposed to be you." Sherlock reached out and laid a long, elegant hand on John's face. "You didn't get to say good-bye to him, you couldn't even go to his service, you were still in Afghanistan - or have any say where he was buried. You still don't know - because they believed - they didn't know him, you were just a friend from uni." He stroked John's face for a moment, then closed his eyes and opened his arms for John to fall into. At first, John didn't move, or make a sound, and then slowly, in silence, the tears flowed over Sherlock's chest, and then the words came tumbling out, mostly bits of songs, broken apologies, and nonsensical rambling that made sense to John, but meant nothing to Sherlock. All he knew to do was to listen and hold tightly to the man in his arms. Eventually they both tumbled into an exhausted slumber, arms and legs tightly entwined, as if they had always meant to be this way together.

 

Sherlock's sleep was disturbed by the familiar sound of his brother's footsteps making their way up the steps to the flat. John at some point had shifted just enough for Sherlock to slip out of bed without disturbing him. He threw on a somewhat clean shirt, a pair of trousers and his robe, took one last long look at the man sleeping in his bed, kissed his forehead, then went to deal with his brother.

"So. This one cleans, at least." Mycroft sneered at him from John's chair. It had become his chair already, Sherlock sighed inwardly and bit his lip, then tried to put as much venom in his response, but his heart wasn't in it.

"No. I did, your Royal -" He stepped into his chair and perched on the back, simply because it annoyed Mycroft when he abused his furniture.

"Since when do you know where the vaccuum is kept?"

Sherlock yawned, as if already bored by Mycroft's presence. "I borrowed Mrs. Hudson's. I do know how it works."

"Apparently." Mycroft stood and walked over to squint into Sherlock's eyes. "Clean-ish, then."

"Hmmm."

"Does he know about -"

"What, the drug use, the rehab centers, or the former boyfriend, former, because you summarily sent him to - let's see - Guantanamo? No - this time - did you even tell me what you did with the body? I can't seem to recall."

"Always so dramatic. He is simply on assignment, not even his family knows where he is -"

"But you do. You made sure there is enough red tape to keep him wherever he is for the next, oh, three or four decades. John is different." He stepped out of his chair and turned to stand in front of the window.

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, really. This one will pass your interviewing process, so don't bother. Good day, brother mine."

Mycroft sighed and tapped his umbrella sharply once and got to his feet. "Very well. He only had one box - not a lot of baggage with this one, Anthea already left it in your 'kitchen.' Best of luck, Sherlock. I hope -"

"Isn't there a dictator you need to topple, Mycroft?"

"No, that isn't scheduled until after the first of the year, it is frowned upon to foment revolution during the holy days, I've never understood -"

Sherlock couldn't help but laugh as he turned to see Mycroft's puzzled expression.

"Sherlock - I..."

"Give my best to Mummy and Father."

Mycroft nodded in response and took his leave. Sherlock sighed and began his search for the new surveillance that he was sure Anthea had managed to install in the few minutes that she had been present in his flat.


End file.
